That Was Easy (Not)
by Anonymoustache
Summary: Sherlock, once again, goes after a killer without backup and without telling anyone. However, things don't go quite as planned, and now Sherlock has to make a choice that could either save or kill him.
1. A Bit Not Good

_A/N; No idea where this one came from. It's just a short, slightly angsty fic I've been working on for a bit now, and I thought I'd just go ahead and post it. Consider it an angst-present for Rainy :D_

_Remember…reviews are to me what serial killings are to Sherlock; exciting! :D_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"I have to go in, John. There's no other way!"

John glared at him. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "There's a dangerous madman in there who's killed four people! I am _not_ letting you go in there." He turned to Lestrade. "Greg, tell me I'm right."

Lestrade nodded vigorously. "It's insane, Sherlock. There's no way you can get in there and not be killed."

"But what if I can?" Sherlock asked in a frustrated voice. "I can reason with him, find his weak points…and then turn him over to you."

John rolled his eyes. "What, are you suddenly impervious to bullets?"

Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "He's right, Sherlock. Logic can't stop the path of a bullet."

"It doesn't have to get to that point, though!" Sherlock growled angrily.

"No," John said firmly. "You are _not_ going in there without backup, and that's _final_."

Sherlock leaned back against one of the boxes around them and sulked. "Fine. But don't blame me when this entire mission is botched because of your idiotic decisions."

"My "idiotic decisions" are keeping you alive, love," said John worriedly, ruffling the detective's silky brown curls.

Sherlock said nothing, just leaned back further and pouted.

* * *

Half an hour later, Sherlock was asleep, head pressed against a crate, snoring softly. John carefully stood up and stretched his aching muscles.

"Lestrade, I'm going to go…" he whispered to the inspector, who was playing solitaire on his phone while they waited for backup to arrive, and gestured towards the woods nearby.

Lestrade nodded, not taking his eyes off his phone. "'kay. Don't let the bugger shoot you while you're taking a piss."

John rolled his eyes. "I'll try and avoid that," he said snarkily, heading for the back of the decrepit factory and trying to keep out of sight of any of the windows.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes flew open.

_John's not very good in the aspect of knowing when someone is really sleeping._

He carefully shifted his position so as to not let Lestrade know he was awake.

_How shall I go about this?_

Sherlock gave a fake yawn and sat up. "How long was I out?" he asked in his best sleepy voice, making sure to fake a hoarse throat.

"'Bout half an hour," Lestrade said, not looking up from his phone.

Sherlock stood and stretched, and began to walk towards the edge of the block of boxes. He stopped and pretended to squint. "Weren't our backup people supposed to come around to _this_ side?"

"WHAT?" Lestrade said, leaping up in alarm. "Where are they going?"

Sherlock squinted again, enjoying putting his acting skills to use. "They just went around to the other side."

"Shit," Lestrade cursed and began to run towards the edge of the building, disappearing after a moment.

Sherlock grinned cockily and headed towards the fire escape near where they had been sitting.

_That was easy._

* * *

Once inside, Sherlock walked up the decrepit stairs carefully, heading for the room at the very top. He wasn't exactly sure where the man was, but he knew one thing…most of the serial killers he had encountered tended to hide at the top of whatever dull and boring hiding place they chose.

_How tedious._

The last room consisted of the entire top floor. It was completely empty, dust particles filling the air as the weak winter sunshine bathed Sherlock in a cold glow.

He walked into the center of the room and circled around, observing everything around him.

"Love what you've done with the place," he said loudly, turning to face the doorway.

The door creaked back and shut with a click, revealing a single man standing with his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Thanks," he said sarcastically, walking out into the room to face the detective. "I thought the gloom added a certain 'something'."

Sherlock stuck out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

The gunman reached out and shook it carefully. "Bobby Brown."

"Interesting name. Why do I feel that I've heard it before?"

The man grinned cockily. "Maybe because I killed four people."

Sherlock nodded coolly. "That could be it.

Bobby began to strut around, looking at the bare room. "So why are you here, Holmes?"

"I think you know."

Bobby turned to him. "But do _you_?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why would I be here if I didn't?"

"Interesting question," Bobby said. He walked over behind the detective and slammed the door shut, locking it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Kidnapping. Dull."

"Nope. Not kidnapping. That would be pointless, seeing as how your brother's probably already got his people on the way," said Bobby. "No. This is something much better. More sinister, if you will."

He pocketed the key and walked to one of the windows, pulling something small and rectangular out of his other pocket.

"My mum used to worry about me as a kid. Always starting fires," he said, holding up a matchbox.

Sherlock laughed scornfully. "You really think that setting this room on fire is going to contain me? You haven't tied me, you haven't incapacitated me in any way."

"I think you're forgetting that this room is seven floors up, Mr. Holmes," said Bobby with a smirk. He lit a match and held it up. "Mazel tov, Mr. Holmes."

Bobby threw the match towards a chair in the corner and jumped off the sill, crashing through the glass to fall out of the building entirely.

Sherlock's jaw dropped as the corner went up in flames. He ran to the window, avoiding the quickly spreading flames, and peered out.

The body of Bobby Brown was lying on the sidewalk, blood spilling from his head.

Sherlock turned away and looked around him at the growing fire.

The room was beginning to heat up, with no escape route in sight.

_Well, this is a bit not good._


	2. I Know

Greg frowned, looking around the empty space that occupied the opposite side of the building.

_What the fuck?_

Sherlock had pointed to this side of the building, saying that the team was coming over here…

_But they're nowhere to be seen._

_Could Sherlock have just made a mistake?_

He shrugged.

_He's human. He makes mistakes too._

Greg turned, walking back around to the side where he had left Sherlock.

John was coming back from the woods at the same time, still zipping up his jeans. However, upon seeing their makeshift hideout, the doctor stopped, frowning. He looked up at Greg as the inspector walked towards him.

"Greg…" John raised his eyebrows.

"Where's Sherlock?"

Greg stopped cold at John's words and then, ever so slowly, turned the corner to see an empty lot.

_What the…_

"Oh…oh, my god…Greg…"

Greg turned towards John to see his face pale as he pointed a shaky hand up towards the very top floor.

What looked suspiciously like smoke began to drift out of the window closest to them.

Greg sighed and ran his hand through his graying hair.

"Well, we know where he is now."

* * *

The room was filling with smoke quite quickly, and for once Sherlock wasn't sure what to do.

Breaking down the door had been his first thought, but Bobby Brown had been very thorough in his preparations; the door, unlike the rest of the building, was brand new, and there was no way Sherlock could break it down with his limited resources. Even picking the lock proved impossible.

Sherlock stood up, back aching, coughing as the fire raged around him, filling the room with a thick haze.

There was only one more option.

_The other window._

He had only one chance to get it. Sherlock knew what lay outside that window. If he didn't propel himself right, he would end up crashing headfirst into the rubbish and pavement below and crack his skull open like Bobby Brown had outside the other window. If he succeeded, he would land in the river that ran beside it and hope to avoid drowning and/or hypothermia. Not to mention crashing through the glass, which was sure to leave some injuries.

Or, he could stay here and be burned to death.

_Overall, I'd say the river is the way to go._

The fire was all around him now. To get to the window, he'd have to run right through it; a rather dangerous thing to do.

_Second degree burns probable, first degree definite, not to mention possible hypothermia from the low water temperatures…I will most likely need medical attention after this._

_I do hope John is back now._

Sherlock took a deep breath and lined himself up with the window as well as he could. Then, he began to count.

_3…_

_2…_

_1._

Sherlock ran as fast as he could for the window, feeling the flames leap hungrily around him, hoping against hope that he wasn't going to end up dead.

* * *

"What the fuck do we do?" John asked, panicking. "He could be up there…he could be trapped, Greg! What do we do?!"

Suddenly, a body broke through the window, sharp shards of glass flying everywhere. The person plummeted down in an arc next to the building to land in the river with a sharp splash, water covering their head.

"Oh my god. Oh my god." John said, voice panicky. "Is that…"

"Jesus Christ," Greg swore. He began to run towards the river, John following closely behind.

John ran right up to the edge, Greg crouching nearby on the bank. Sherlock still had not surfaced.

"Come on, love…" John said, voice breaking. "Please…"

There was no sign of the detective.

"Fine, you difficult bastard," Greg muttered. He stripped off his coat and handed it to John. "Be back in a moment."

Greg dived into the water, the cold seeping into his bones, as John stood there helplessly, worried out of his mind.

Greg's eyes took a moment to adjust to the silty water of the river, stinging slightly.

_Where is he?_

_There._

Sherlock was slowly sinking towards the bottom of the river, unconscious, curls floating softly around his pale white face.

Greg swam down as fast as he could, grabbing Sherlock around the waist, and began to swim back to the top, all his memories of being on the swim team at uni coming back suddenly.

_Pull, kick…pull, kick…_

Finally, Greg broke the surface of the water, pushing Sherlock up towards the bank. John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hands, pulling him up onto the firm ground. Greg swam to the shore as John pulled off his coat and wrapped Sherlock in it, squeezing water out of his inky-looking curls.

Greg pulled himself up onto the bank and grabbed his coat, wrapping himself in it as his teeth chattered.

John was leaning over Sherlock, shaking him slightly.

"Wake up, love, please…come on…stay with me…"

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes flew open and he sucked in a great breath, then turned over and vomited up water onto the ground. John held him carefully, rubbing his back and arms to warm him up.

Sherlock turned back over, small cuts on his face from the glass spilling blood down his porcelain cheeks. John wiped away the blood gently and kissed his blue lips, wrapping his warm arms around the detective.

"S-s-sorry, J-j-John…" Sherlock said miserably, teeth chattering. "I w-w-was only t-trying to h-h-help…"

"Oh, love…" John said tenderly. He rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock's arms and then wrapped him in a tight embrace, kissing his cheek gently.

"I know."


End file.
